


Words Spoken in Moonlight

by Irrevocably_Sherlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Protective Mycroft, Sibling Incest, holmescest, mycroft wants so much, takes place in ASiB
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-13 16:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21176384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked/pseuds/Irrevocably_Sherlocked
Summary: Sherlock nodded, downing the rest of his glass in one gulp. “Fine.” He pushed himself to standing and Mycroft suddenly was anxious for him to remain. He wanted to talk, he wanted to have him there just a little longer, he wanted so many things...he wanted.Something big is on the horizon, but Mycroft wants just one night...





	Words Spoken in Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> Hi All! Yes. Me. Writing a new pairing. (new to me anyhow). So hello to new readers! I hope you like my offering for this delicious duo. 
> 
> A big thank you to my dear friend [MrsNoggin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin). She was my beta for this, my cheerleader, and a huge support to putting this out there for you all. Thank you, my friend. <3

“She won’t last six months.” 

The voice startled him, and he was rarely startled. But he should have expected it. Mycroft sighed and flipped on the light, illuminating the form of his brother perched in his armchair, legs crossed over one another, half-empty glass of scotch held in his hand. Neat, he noted. Interesting. 

“Four, actually,” he answered evenly, unbuttoning his suit jacket and laying it gently on the sofa. 

“Mm.” 

“She declined my protection. There was nothing more to be done.” 

Mycroft watched carefully as Sherlock raised the glass to his lips. “Why do you care?” 

“I don’t,” Sherlock snapped, lowering the glass and fixing Mycroft with a stare. 

Mycroft waited, watching as Sherlock warred with himself. 

“I was wrong tonight.”

“Is that what’s bothering you? Don’t fret, Brother Mine, you were, in fact, right. Too right, as it were. The mistakes I’m afraid, lie with me.” Mycroft turned away, pouring himself a drink. 

“Mycroft. I…miscalculated.” 

Mycroft added another finger of scotch to his glass, closing his eyes. He hated hearing the uncertainty in Sherlock’s voice. Hated when he sounded broken. He should never sound that way, he thought. He wanted so much to soothe, to comfort, but he knew that was not how they were. Smoothing his features, he turned. 

“I didn’t presume she had a partner. Or that by solving her puzzle I’d play right into his hands,” Sherlock continued. “It was a game, a simple riddle-“

“You never could resist. I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Your ego will get you killed, Sherlock.”

“I’m not worried about me.”

Mycroft looked up sharply at that. Sherlock may not have been worried, but he certainly was. He barely slept most nights thinking about ways to keep Sherlock safe. Surveillance, protection, anything. Mycroft would do nearly anything to protect him. And he had a feeling that it wasn’t such a secret anymore. Somehow Ms. Adler had known exactly where to press. Iceman indeed. 

“You have more information about Moriarty,” Sherlock said, studying him. “Tell me.”

Mycroft looked out the window, shaking his head; a minuscule ‘no’. “Tell me!” Sherlock insisted. 

“Ask me tomorrow,” Mycroft replied, softly. 

Sherlock nodded, downing the rest of his glass in one gulp. “Fine.” He pushed himself to standing and Mycroft suddenly was anxious for him to remain. He wanted to talk, he wanted to have him there just a little longer, he wanted so many things...he _wanted._

“You can take the car. Or... you can stay, if you like.” It was out, and Mycroft waited, heart in his throat, for his answer. 

Sherlock sucked in a breath, turning towards Mycroft, his features partially illuminated by the streaming moonlight. “Where?” 

“Your room is always ready,” Mycroft gestured around himself. “Or…” he let the sentence hang. Please, stay with me, he thought, be with me, let me wipe that doubt from your mind, let us face this together. 

He waited, not daring to move as Sherlock crossed the space between them. He didn’t want to push too hard, give too much away, but he yearned to reach out, to touch. Sherlock paused in front of him, his expression a mix of uncertainty and desire in equal measure. Mycroft ached at the extraordinary beauty of him, as he always did, when he was this close. Still, he waited.

As it ever was with the two of them, neither wanted to be the first to break, to acquiesce. They both stared, waiting for the moment of capitulation in the other. Mycroft saw it in the split second before it happened, the fluttering of lashes, the whispered “yes,” that fell like a silent offering, before Sherlock’s mouth descended upon his own, soft, and seeking. 

Mycroft gave himself to the kiss, his lips moving in time with Sherlock’s in a tender embrace. Without breaking their connection, he set his glass down and reached up to thread his hands through Sherlock’s curls, luxuriating in the soft slide through his fingers as he tilted his head to gain better access. The tiny gasp that escaped Sherlock’s mouth was enough to send a thrill up his spine, a tiny ember of smoldering desire burning hot and bright low in his belly. Sherlock opened his mouth, touching his tongue to his own, and the ember sparked, molten fire kept in check. He pressed harder, using his fingers to pull at those insane curls and bring Sherlock into the cradle of his body, and Sherlock melted into him. They kissed and kissed, a flurry of desperate lips, tongues, gasping moans. Both wanting control and submission all at once. Mycroft was lost to it, giving himself over to the desire he held so carefully in check and pouring everything into this moment. 

Sherlock finally pulled back, panting, his eyes blown wide with need. “Myc,” he grated. 

Mycroft surged forward to kiss him again, hard and quick, before pulling back to grab his hand and lead him to his bedroom. 

Once inside, Mycroft closed the door, and made to turn on the light. 

“Don’t,” Sherlock whispered. Mycroft turned to look at him, and Sherlock slowly undid the buttons of his shirt, the light from the moon illuminating his skin like an angel’s caress. He flung it aside, starting on his trousers, discarding each item until he stood bare, and proud. Mycroft had never seen Sherlock look as beautiful as he did in that moment bathed in celestial light. He wanted to say so much, he settled for “all right.”

Mycroft reached out, and Sherlock met him halfway, slotting their mouths together, aligning their bodies from hip to shoulder. Sherlock wormed his hands between them, unfastening the buttons on Mycroft’s waistcoat and shirt, as Mycroft trailed hot open-mouthed kisses down his neck. Buttons undone, Sherlock practically ripped the garments from his body, before leaning down to mouth along Mycroft’s collarbone, his shoulder, the bottom of his jaw; tongue and teeth, light kisses. Mycroft was overcome already, his head lighter than air, his arms full of Sherlock, as Sherlock moved lower and lower down his body. 

Sherlock lowered gracefully to his knees, pressing nipping licks to Mycroft’s stomach. Mycroft was torn between wanting him never to stop, and a nagging insecurity that made him want to hide. Sherlock was ethereal beauty, light and lean, while he- 

“Stop talking,” Sherlock murmured, biting gently at his navel. 

“I didn’t say anything,” he gasped. 

“You were thinking, loudly.” Sherlock looked at him through hooded lashes, resting his chin on Mycroft’s belly. “I’m _exactly_ where I wish to be.” 

Sherlock bent back to his task, laving Mycroft’s stomach, his hips, with adoration as he started removing his trousers. Each inch revealed was caressed by Sherlock’s lips, until Mycroft was left trembling. His pants followed, leaving him bare, and achingly erect, his penis already gathering fluid at the tip. Sherlock was in a similar state, his hands trembling as they gripped Mycroft’s thighs, his breathing erratic. 

“May I-“

“Oh please, god yes,” Mycroft answered. Something, anything would do. At the first touch of hot, wet heat on his cock, he bit his lip not to cry out. 

Mycroft wound his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, holding on, as Sherlock sucked him, not pulling, just guiding, caressing. “You’re so perfect,” he whispered, running his thumb along the seam of his brother’s mouth where it wrapped prettily around his cock. “So good.” 

Sherlock let out a small moan, the vibration reverberating through his body, and drawing their pleasure ever higher. Sherlock bobbed up and down his length, his hands grasping at his arse, pressing him impossibly closer, encouraging him to move. Mycroft thrust slowly, watching as his cock disappeared into Sherlock’s willing mouth, Sherlock’s eyes like smouldering coals on his own. “Sherlock,” he sighed.

Sherlock pulled off suddenly, pushing himself up and kissing Mycroft fiercely. “Bed,” he growled. 

They fell together in a tangle of limbs, rolling over one another, wrestling for control. Sherlock maneuvered himself on top, nestling between Mycroft’s spread thighs. He attacked Mycroft’s mouth with a desperate ferocity, needy whimpers escaping from his throat as he ground his erection against Mycroft’s own. Mycroft wrapped his legs around his slim hips, holding on as he moved in time, plundering his mouth and his body, and matching Sherlock thrust for thrust. It felt insanely good, indecent and decadent, and he couldn’t stop himself from crying out.

Sherlock swore, pulling away long enough to reach over to the bedside drawer to grab the lube and apply a generous amount to his fingers. Mycroft prepared himself for the breach, and instead nearly gasped at the erotic sight of Sherlock reaching behind and plunging slicked fingers into his hole. Sherlock rocked his hips, his eyes laser focused on Mycroft as he slowly opened himself up. Mycroft stared in open-mouthed admiration as he watched Sherlock’s muscles shift and tremble in the dim light. He ran his hands up Sherlock’s thighs, feeling them shake and shiver under his fingertips. 

“That’s it, you’re so gorgeous. My pretty one. You’re amazing,” he soothed. 

Sherlock whimpered, throwing his head back as he added another finger to the mix. Mycroft wished he had a mirror, to watch those violinists fingers plunge into that perfect ass. 

“Next time,” Sherlock gasped, “I’ll turn around.”

Mycroft laughed. “How can you deduce my thoughts at a time like this?” 

Sherlock smiled, removing his fingers, and straddling Mycroft’s hips. “Because I was thinking it too. Now. Fuck me.” 

Sherlock lowered himself onto Mycroft’s cock slowly, his thighs trembling as he sank inch by inch, taking Mycroft into his body. When he was fully seated, he paused, resting his hands on Mycroft’s chest. “A minute,” he panted. 

“We have all the time in the world.”

Sherlock glanced at the window, his expression so heartbreakingly vulnerable in the moonlight. Mycroft waited, running his hands over Sherlock’s thighs, his chest, his arms in tender caresses. Finally Sherlock began to move, rolling his hips, a slow rise and a steady fall as Mycroft grasped his hips guiding him down. Sherlock turned back, staring down at Mycroft as he moved, his fingers brushing over Mycroft’s nipples as he rode his cock in earnest. Sherlock rolled one nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and Mycroft gasped, arching his back. 

“Oh fuck Myc, do that again.” 

Mycroft did, again and again, moving in time with the rhythm Sherlock set, the bed rocking with their movements as they chased their pleasure with one another.

“So close, so close,” Sherlock panted. 

Mycroft wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock moaned, reaching down to thread his fingers with Mycroft’s. Together they worked his prick in quick hard pulls as they thrust faster together, until Sherlock came undone, his body clenching like a vice around Mycroft’s cock. 

Mycroft stopped as he watched his brother’s body pull tight; his head thrown back in pure pleasure, Mycroft’s name falling from his lips, drops of moon-shone sweat pooling in his navel, and he nearly came right there at the sight. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen, and he wanted more. He wanted it forever. 

“Now you,” Sherlock said. 

Mycroft planted his feet on the bed, grasped Sherlock’s hips and thrust hard and fast into his willing body. He was so close. Sherlock cried out, and Mycroft knew he was probably oversensitive but he couldn’t stop, he needed this. Needed _him. _He thrust five, six, seven times before he felt his climax over take him, crashing over him like a wave of pure ecstasy, Sherlock’s name falling from his lips. 

Sherlock tumbled down beside him, resting his head on Mycroft’s shoulder and snuggling close. Mycroft pressed a soft kiss to his rumpled curls before sliding out of the bed for a quick clean up. He brought a flannel back to the bed, taking his time with slow, reverent touches, as he tenderly cleansed Sherlock’s body. Once complete, he climbed back into bed and pulled Sherlock close. He loved him like this, soft and pliant and sleepy. He loved him in the moonlight. He loved him… 

“Promise me,” Mycroft whispered suddenly, “we will tackle this together, whatever happens.” 

“Ask me tomorrow,” Sherlock answered, yawning. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mycroft woke to an empty bed. The dent in the pillow next to his own the only remnant of the night before. He couldn’t say he was surprised, Sherlock was never one to stay anywhere for long. He was surprised he got him to stay for the night. Mycroft rolled over, inhaling Sherlock’s scent, remembering. He wanted to bottle it, keep it with him, wrap up in it on cold nights. He would chide himself for the appalling sentiment, but not right this moment. 

His phone pinging roused him just as he was drifting back off, and he reached to retrieve it, glancing at the screen. A single text. 

6:37

It’s tomorrow. -SH 

Mycroft sighed, turning his head to watch the sunrise start the new day. Indeed. 

He thumbed open his phone and began to type. 


End file.
